A study in Shipping
by NotxMyxDivision
Summary: In which I ship everything and everyone out of pure frustration for a lack of Season 3. I take suggestions. Every character you can think of. Yes, even the sexy extras. Every combination is possible. There are no limitations.
1. Johnlock: From the Blog of JHWatson

**Hello loves. I'm starting this thing, which will be a study of every possible ship in the Sherlock fandom. If you have a suggestion for a ship you want to read, don't be afraid to message me and I'll give it a go (no matter how random it is. I've read Anderson/Dinosaurs. I'd go there.)**

**Of course I'm starting with the most obvious one - but I suck at writing them as an actual couple, so you'll have to do with platonic soulmates.**

It was not a secret to me that my friend thought highly of books. I often found him awake in the middle of the night, clutching a scientific book of one sort or another, furiously flipping pages until he had found what he was looking for. I knew he enjoyed finding affirmation for his findings from the previous brilliant minds that had graced the planet. "Words, my dear doctor," he said, "are what allow us to share our findings. Books truly are the greatest invention made so far. Books are the greatest weapons in the world!"

Of course I could only nod and smile, for he was right, but I found myself as ever so often incapable of adding something to his words, and he didn't expect me to, turning his attention back to his book.

It was a rare sight however, to see Sherlock Holmes curl up in his chair, sipping a cup of tea and occasionally reaching out to take on of the freshly baked cookies our lovely landlady had so thoughtfully provided him with. I returned from the grocery store to stumble upon exactly this scenario, and I had to refrain myself from letting my jaw drop. It had been the day after wrapping up an excessively tiring case. My friend had eaten an entire 3-course meal, before crawling in his bed and passing out for 17 hours at least. He had still been asleep when I had left earlier this morning, but he seemed to have gotten up a while ago. He had even made the effort to dress himself. He glanced up and caught my gaze with those stunningly icy-blue eyes of his own, raising a questioning eyebrow. "Is something the matter, John?"

He sure I was he had already read my surprise and confusion from my face, as well as the fact I had stopped for a coffee on the way home. He didn't say any of those deductions out loud, and I was glad he allowed me to speak for myself. I made my way to the kitchen, making an effort to not touch any of the experiments stalled out on the table. "It surprised me that you were reading." I said, while putting the milk in the fridge, pushing the pickled thumbs aside. Without looking up, I could imagine the frown that would have appeared on his face, the neck stretched so he could observe me better, wondering why I thought what I did - how much he hated to admit it, the most intimate part of me, my thoughts, he could not read like he could of my appearance and manners. "I read very often, John."

At his indignant tone I felt a smile spread over my features, and I turned to him, willing to soothe him like one would try to cheer up a child. "I know, Sherlock." I said fondly, wrinkling the plastic bag in my hand and putting it aside. "But you mostly only lay your eyes on scientific oriented non-fiction. I did think you would find fiction rather unappealing "

I went to sit down in my chair opposite his, still smile as his gaze never left my face. It was something I had taken time getting used to, the feeling of constantly being observed, but I had come to the point where I wouldn't be able to live without it. He tilted his head to the side, eyes softening, as he reached for another cookie to stuff in his mouth. I was once more struck by the resemblance with a young child, and suddenly it was no longer a 34-year old man sitting in front of me, and the curious eyes and unruly curls belonged to an intelligent 10-year old, judging me for being too stupid to understand everything he said. When I said nothing more he puffed slightly, finally averting his eyes. "Fiction writers are the scientists of life and language, John. They are worth my interest as much as any other scientist." He smiled, and I would have missed it if I had not been paying attention; for my friend often smiled with his lips - to obtain more information or convince the victims he did understand what they were saying, even though he did not - but those were jerky, awkward motions, often not related to his emotions, and only rarely he really showed his amusement, with that little sparkle that listed the usual curtain of his face. My heart filled with even more endearment as he gave me that glance inside his head. Having a man that great trust me enough to let his guards down for even the slightest moment was a treat sweeter than the best of Mrs. Hudson's cookies. He must've noticed my feelings towards the matter, because he sighed and pushed a tea cup closer to me with his foot. "Shut up and have a cuppa, Watson."

Sometimes a case is less interesting than what happens afterwards. And I think it makes a nice change.

John H. Watson


	2. Mormor: Walk in Wardrobe

_**It was enormous. It was ginormous. It was like the Closet of Narnia, only there was nothing behind the closet, it just was the closet.**_

Sebastian had known of Jim's excessive amount of clothing, of course. He knew the man preferred wearing another suit every day, and he couldn't remember seeing the same one twice. Then again, fashion wasn't Sebastian's strongest point of knowledge. Whenever Jim would scold him for still wearing the jeans he wore last year, he simply blocked him out, looking up with a smile and pretending he cared. "Sorry boss." Up until recently, that had always worked perfectly, and Jim had always seemed to accept the fact that his favourite pet - such an awful word, in Sebastian's opinion - didn't give one singly fuck about his appearance outside the basic hygiene.

He should have realised that Jim accepting something that annoyed him was _not possible._ He shouldn't have been surprised that he was suddenly sent a text to come by, shouldn't have been surprised that as soon as he knocked on the door of Jim's apartment it was swung open, a hand clasped around his wrist and pulled him inside. "Good morning, Sebbie!" And the door closed and his wrist was released and suddenly those hands were all over him, tugging off his jacket, carelessly dropping it before urging Sebastian to take of his shirt, moving to unbuckle his belt.

Sebastian couldn't do much more than stand still and let Jim do whatever he had gotten in his mind, up until the point where he felt his jeans slip down his legs. "Boss.. BOSS, what are you…?" He tried, but was interrupted by those hands on his waist, slipping underneath his shirt and up his chest, the fabric sliding up along with the teasing fingers. Sebastian tried to utter some kind of complaint. This wasn't normal behaviour, and still he went along with it - he always did. When all his clothes except his underwear and socks were lying on the floor, Jim took a step back, grinning widely at him and licking his lips while scanning over the taller man's body. "I have a surprise for you, love."

Sebastian kept his pose relaxed. It wasn't the first time he had been in front of his boss with a lack of clothes, so he didn't mind too much, yet the look in Jim's eyes made him feel slightly uncomfortable. "You do?" Surprises usually weren't that pleasant. Except for that one time he suddenly got a car. Too bad he crashed the expensive thing only two weeks later.

Jim's grin only widened, and he motioned Sebastian to follow him. They made their way to the bedroom, and Sebastian rolled his eyes as he watched Jim dramatically open the doors to his closet. "Boss.. I don't want to be your dress-up doll again. I told you last time that…"

"Hush." Jim turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "We are not talking about that. Look." Sebastian turned his eyes towards the rows and rows of clothing. He couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. Different shades of grey, white, beige, cream, aubergine adorned the walls, every single suit an expression of excessive luxury. "It's… Impressive?" He tried, not wanting to upset the other while he was in such an undressed state.

Jim sighed, taking out a suit and holding it in front of Sebastian. "Yours." He simply said, the grin reappearing as Sebastian frowned. "Surprise, Sebbie."

Sebastian stared at the shorter man, the suit, and back at Jim. "You got me a suit. Thank you." Even though he hardly ever wore suits. _Ever. _

"Not a suit, love." Jim chuckled, taking the suit from him again and almost lovingly put it between its brothers. "I got you a wall of suits. You're dressed like a hobo, you could use some style. We're making some new rules for your daily appearance."

**Oh god no.**

* * *

_A.N. In contrary to my rather disinterest in the Johnlock couple, I am a proud captain of the SS. Mormor. But I never said I would be serious. Anyway, there might be a couple Mormor thingies in here. *shrugs* I don't know yet, really, I suppose it will all come au naturel. I write a ridiculous amount of drabbles, so I guess you can enjoy. :3_


	3. Sherstrade: First meeting

**Sherstrade. Sherlock is here in his twenties, Lestrade would be... Just past thirty, I think. This is a WIP, but can be read as a separate short! (: **

* * *

The first time Greg met Sherlock was when he was still a DC, a younger, less grey-haired version of himself. He had had a long, tiring night, reading through different interrogations and not getting even the slightest bit further in his investigation. He rubbed his eyes, yawning. Maybe he should just go pick up some Chinese, go home and continue in the morning. It was almost 3 am anyway. His stomach made a grateful noise at his plans, so he gathered his papers, putting them back in the case file and putting on his black dress coat - one thing he'd spend way too much money on in his excitement when he got his first job. He turned off the lights in the room - he was the last one who stayed, and left the building, running a hand through his hair and rummaging through his pocket, looking for his car keys. As soon as he stepped outside, there was someone in front of him.

His instincts kicked in, and he took an immediate defensive position, not willing to be robbed in the middle of the night. He really wasn't in the right mood for that. Before he could get any hits or kicks going, however, the other spoke in a low and hoarse voice. "DC Lestrade?"

He froze. "Yes?"

A chuckle escaped the other man. "It's the daughter."

"Apologies?"

"The daughter. She killed the new girlfriend. She was of the opinion she was trying to take the place of her mother, so stabbed her when she came home from a drink with some friends. Her father wasn't at home, was he? Perfect timing to commit a murder and hide the weapon, claiming she was asleep."

Greg's head spun with the sudden new information, but he quickly regained his composure and tried to take a better look at the other man. In the weak light of the street lamps he could see a dark mop of curls on top of a pale face, and strikingly grey eyes. He was dressed in a jeans and shirt, even though the weather was rather chilly. He looked young, about university age, maybe older but he didn't look the part. He frowned at him, keeping a wary distance. "How do you know?"

"How don't you know?" The other replied, mirth dripping of his voice. "It's obvious, isn't it?" He flashed Greg a grin, before turning on his heels and walking away with large strides.

"Hey!" Greg called after him, eager to know more about the sources of this man. He had been thinking about the daughter all along, but he had no way to prove it. "Where do you get…"

"Check the freezer." The dark-haired man called back, before turning around the corner and disappearing. Greg thought about running after him for a second, but then shrugged. He really wanted to get some damn Chinese.

The man proved to be right. The next day Greg and the rest of the team went back to the house and found the knife in the back of the freezer, hidden in a box of frozen soup. The daughter was arrested, and Greg was praised and given the promises of more cases. He thanked the inspector with the right amount of shyness, in his mind more gratefully thanking the stranger who had given him the information.

* * *

It wasn't too long before he would see the young man again, yet this time in slightly different circumstances. A couple weeks later, on an almost warm afternoon. He was just back from his lunch break, ready to delve through a whole new set of case-notes, when a loud bang and yelling reached his ears from the entrance. He strolled through the hallway, curious to see what was disturbing the normally so peaceful office. Surprise hit him as he saw two cops dragging a very familiar young man towards the cells. Yet the dark haired youngster didn't seem to keen to be taken along. He was struggling against his handcuffs and screaming as if someone was torturing him "Who is that?" He asked Dimmock, one of his more close friends among his colleagues.

Dimmock chuckled. "Sherlock Holmes. We have been trying to get him for a while. We suspected he was dealing drugs, but we haven't been able to catch him before today. Found him high as a kite in an alley, I suppose he's lucky no one else did."

Greg pressed his lips symphatically. A junkie. That was anticlimactic. He had to admit he had been hoping for a secret spy or something like that. Maybe he had to lay off the bad action movies. The screaming of the young man, Sherlock Holmes, apparently, dulled when he was pushed into one of the cells and the door was closed. Everyone went back to business, but Greg. Dimmock patted his shoulder impatiently. "Come on, Lestrade, nothing to do here. Unless you want to be the one to interrogate the savage."

"Actually I do." Greg replied impulsively. "I was getting bored with reading notes anyway." He threw Dimmock a smile, picking up the file on Holmes and asking permission for the interrogation. It didn't take him more than ten minutes to get all the paperwork done and having read the two pages of information. There wasn't much.

Sherlock Holmes, 22, graduated from Oxford University with highest distinction in criminology, no permanent address, no visible links to anyone in the drugs' business, yet a frequent user. He had been arrested a couple times before for causing fights in cafes, but always released without consequences. He frowned; that wasn't according the rules. He shrugged slightly, opening the door to the interrogation room.

In the white light of the room, he looked even younger than his age. His wild hair was sticking in every direction, his light eyes focused on his hands. Greg sat down opposite him, putting the file down in front of him and just checking him up and down. He didn't often get to do interrogations anymore, ever since he was working as a detective. "Sherlock Holmes?" He asked, smiling neutrally at the man. Kid, his brain automatically corrected.

"Well done, Detective. It took you a pretty long time to figure out the name alone, didn't it?" Sherlock looked up, leaning a bit forward in his chair, but unable to do so too much, both hands being cuffed to the sides. He huffed in annoyance. "And can't you take these off? I'm not going to jump you."

Greg smiled a little. "You attacked several police officers, Sherlock, I can't just do that." He opened the file, pretending to read the notes. "I will just have to ask you a couple questions, are you okay with that?"

Sherlock snorted. "Yes, I took the drugs. Yes, it was voluntarily. No, I won't give you the name of the person whom I got it from and no, I'm not a dealer. If that's everything than can you just lock me up again and I can wait to get bailed out." He crossed his legs, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes, obviously unwilling to say anything more. Greg sighed. "Sherlock, you do know it is illegal to…"

"Oh, for god's sake. YES. Yes, I am aware. What are you going to do about it?" Sherlock hadn't even opened his eyes, Greg noticed, and it made him frown. "Well, for example, we could force you to go to an in-patient centre…"

"No, you can't." The same bored and annoyed tone.

"We could lock you up on suspicion of dealing drugs…"

Sherlock started laughing at this point. "Detective, please, there is no use continuing this. I am sure I will be out of here in less than 2 hours, take my word for it. He let me stay the night last time, he won't let that happen now."

For someone who had been under the influence of drugs not long ago, Sherlock was surprisingly clear. He didn't look shaken at all that he was bound to a chair in a police office. In fact, he seemed rather at easy with the entire situation. Perhaps that was the aftermath of the drug, he didn't know. It was clear however, that Sherlock wouldn't answer any questions. So Greg put down his pen and rested his chin on his hands, just watching the kid. "It's not healthy what you are doing, Sherlock. You don't want to ruin your body and mind while you're still this young." He kept his voice pleasant and warm, with the same tone he so frequently used when he had to baby-sit his nephews. Sherlock didn't answer, just looked at him, eyes fixed on his face. Good, he at least had his attention then. "We can help you, if you'd let us. I can help you. You're a bright kid, I'm sure there is something you can do with your life, other than wasting it like this." It always made him a bit sad when he saw the young people that were caught in the curse of drugs.

"You just want me to be locked away." Sherlock mumbled, dropping his eyes to the floor. The spark of interest that had been there only moments ago, had completely disappeared. He pulled his legs up as far as possible, and had to put them back down when he couldn't move enough to put them on the chair. He shook his hands and sighed, dropping them and closed his eyes again. Greg's eyes trailed over the kid's face, down his arms and to his hands. His knuckles were scratched and bloody, and looked rather dirty. "I shall get someone to disinfect that." Sherlock didn't reply, so Greg just stayed where he was, crossing his arms and eyeing the wasn't really how he had expected to meet his informative stranger again. He leant forward, clicking off the recorder and then asked the question that had been on his mind ever since their last meeting. "How did you know about the knife in the freezer?"

A small smile appeared on Sherlock's face, but he didn't open his eyes. "The daughter liked to bake, spent a lot of time in the kitchen. She would have hid it somewhere in the kitchen, and the freezer was just her being innovative."

"But how did you know she liked to bake?"

"She offered cupcakes to the police when they first came by. No one makes cupcakes if they don't like spending time on decorating them."

"But how…"

"I observe." Was the short and sneery answer.

"I see."

"Yes, but that's all you do."

Greg opened his mouth to ask another question when the door of the interrogation room opened again. A young, blonde woman peeked inside. "Excuse me, sir? Someone is here to pick up Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock lifted his head and opened his eyes, a smug smile spreading on his face. Greg nodded at the woman, who closed the door again when she left, before turning his eyes back to Sherlock and raising an eyebrow. "You know who that is?"

"Of course. Now, will you please unlock these cuffs, detective?"

* * *

**AN: Young Sherlock always makes me giggle. I imagine him to be as hyperintelligent and passionate as he is in the series, but wilder and less in control of himself or the way he acts. Addicted to drugs, sleeping ridiculously little and running around like a madman, with his brother having to come and get him out of trouble more than once.**

**I hope you enjoyed this! You can always give me tips or opinions or... Whatever you want, as long as you stay polite and civilised. I'm only human.**


End file.
